


Homoeroticism in Science Fiction Television

by katiemariie



Category: Community (TV), Farscape, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Dreamatorium, Frottage, Illustrated, M/M, Multi, Pon Farr, Roleplay, Simulated Breathplay, Simulated Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 15:08:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/749914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiemariie/pseuds/katiemariie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a season 4 AU where the Dreamatorium still stands, Troy and Abed come to a few realizations about themselves and their feelings for one another while pretending to be characters from sci-fi TV. They get a little help from their friends at Greendale in figuring out what to do with their newfound feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homoeroticism in Science Fiction Television

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunsetsinthewes (anathemagerminabunt)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anathemagerminabunt/gifts).



> Many thanks to my beta, [sarcasticsra](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasticsra/pseuds/sarcasticsra).

  


  
_"The captain looked at me and said,  
'Get the fuck off the holodeck.  
I'm about to get laid.'"_  
"The Captain Caught Me on the Holodeck" by Warp 11

-

Abed spots the young man from across the replimat, sticking out despite his best attempts to fit in. He suspects that may be a recurring problem for the station doctor: too smart to ever truly belong, but naïve enough to believe he could force his way in on his juvenile charms. That naivety (and perhaps even the intelligence) will come in handy in short order.

Abed circles around the doctor's table, checking the room carefully for any senior officers who may dissuade their green coworker from associating with those such as him. Fortunately, none are in sight, and Abed is free to make the business of introductions.

“Doctor Bashir, I presume?”

The doctor's eyes blink wildly in panic. “Yes, uh... yes,” Troy stammers. “That... is me.”

“Charmed. My name is Garak.” He gives a slight bow. “Cardassian by birth obviously. The last one of us aboard the space station following the end of the occupation, meaning I am so—” He sits across the table from Troy. “—appreciative of making new friends.” He bats his eyelashes. Troy shivers. “You are new to the station?”

“Yes. I came aboard when Starfleet took control. But you—” Troy rests his elbows on the table, accidentally entangling his right hand in the leaves of the floral centerpiece between them. He swats at it for a beat, attempting to get an unmediated view of Abed, before giving the whole matter up for lost. “You—you, as I understand it, you've been here quite some time.”

“Ah! So, you've heard of me?”

Troy panics briefly before changing the subject. He is nowhere near as converse in the conversational arts as Abed. “So, would you care for some Tareeki-tarekki—” Troy sighs, his whole posture changing as he looks to Abed for help.

Out of character, “Tarkalean tea,” Abed provides.

“So, would you care for some Tarkalean tea?” Troy asks, his voice switching back to Bashir's upper crust accent.

Abed smiles at him. “What a—” His eyes flick up and down Troy's body. “— _thoughtful_ young man. How _nice_ that we've met.”

Troy turns, gesturing for a replimat server, but finding none available. He smiles sheepishly at Abed. “You know... some people say you remained on the space station as the eyes and ears of the Cardassian Union.”

Abed gasps, feigning being scandalized. “Doctor, you're not implying that I'm some kind of spy, are you?”

Troy's mouth forms a wide “O” as he wordlessly shakes his head. “I wouldn't know, sir.”

“Ah, an open mind. The essence of intellect. You may have also heard, I own a clothing shop on the station. Should you ever need some new apparel or, merely wish, as I do, for a bit of _enjoyable company_ now and then, I'm all yours, doctor.”

“You're very kind, Mr. Garak.”

“Oh, it's just Garak. Plain, simple—”

“Garak,” they say together.

Abed rises from the table. “Good day to you, doctor.” He circles around the table. “I'm so glad—” he places his hands on Troy's shoulders, feeling the muscles tense beneath his fingertips. “—to have made such an _interesting_ new friend today.” Abed gently squeezes Troy's shoulders, paying particular attention to the area where, were Bashir a Cardassian, sensitive, _erogenous_ neck ridges would lie. Catching himself, Abed walks away, hearing Troy sigh in relief behind him.

The replimat fades into the gridded walls of the Dreamatorium.

Troy looks around in confusion. “Aren't we gonna do the next scene?”

“Later,” Abed says, his voice switching from the gentle glide of Garak to his usual nasal tone. “I have to do something. Alone. Outside the apartment. ...it's a secret Polish thing.”

“Oh. Okay.”

–

  
Abed fingers twitch slightly at his sides as he waits outside the study room. He thinks he should probably fidget more as anxious as he is, maybe pace the hallways or bite his fingernails, but this isn't the kind of emotion he wants to telegraph right now.

Neil pokes his head out the door. Abed's fingers still. “Hey, what's up?” Neil whispers. “I'm in the middle of a game.”

“I know. I wouldn't have asked you to meet with me if it wasn't an emergency.”

“This isn't about your morning show, is it? Because, I told you, I don't think I'm experienced enough to be your key grip. Maybe after I finish intro to film, but right now—”

Abed holds up a hand, silencing Neil. “It's not about that. I need your counsel and advice.”

“Me?”

“From one role-player to another.”

“Oh.” Neil steps out into the hall, accepting their sacred covenant. “Share your troubles, Dungeon Master. Duquesne offers an open mind and a kind heart.”

“As I knew you would.” Abed nods. “I cede to your knowledge as a vastly more experienced player.”

Neil bows his head. “Unburden yourself.”

Abed takes a breath. “While acting out a scene with a friend, have you ever... gotten caught up in the moment?”

“All the time.”

“To the point where things got... intense? Like, with touching?”

“Yeah. Last week, I broke Magnitude's glasses with the Sword of Duquesne.”

“No, I mean, like romantic intense.”

Neil grins, leaning over conspiratorially. “How do you think me and Vicki got together?”

“I don't know. How did you and Vicki get together?”

“Well, we were playing _Vampire: the Masquerade_ and things got intense and I really liked her so I just went with it.”

“And she was okay with that?”

“Yeah. We were both there. Just in the moment.”

“That's the problem. I was in the moment, but then I ran over here to talk to you. Now, I don't think I can get in the moment again.”

“Maybe you could try playing a really romantic scene and if you don't get in the moment then... it might've been just a one-time thing. You know the places LARPing can take you. I mean, last month—”

Pierce opens the study room door, smacking it right into Neil. “Get in here! It's your turn. That damned serpent of Bursei is kicking our asses! Hey, Ay-bed.”

“Hey, Pierce.”

  


–

Troy descends the ladder into Moya's neural cluster. Powered down, the ship is so cold he can see his breath. No matter; as a Sebacean and a Peacekeeper, the cold is little deterrent. He will find the elusive John Crichton, if he is hiding aboard. He wasn't made captain for nothing.

Behind him, a snarl—a familiar snarl. Scorpius! His former commanding officer alive and well aboard Moya! Troy should have known Scorpius would make himself close to Crichton... But how close? (Troy is not jealous. Merely concerned about the hooman's possible betrayal. That is all.)

Troy dampens his surprise. “You're dead.” Last he saw Scorpius, he was in his grave.

Abed growls, “How many aboard the ship, Braca?” Troy suppresses a shiver—not from the cold, but from how Scorpius says his name.

“Thirty Peacekeepers. And Grayza.”

“Will they follow you down here?”

“No.”

Abed draws near, breathing heavily. The sound sends shivers down Troy's spine—all the way to his butt. “Lieuten—” Troy turns to see Abed snicker. “I mean, _captain_...”

Abed grips Troy's head between his strong, gloved heads, wrenching it forward. Troy briefly wonders if this is it: the moment Scorpius kills him. He meets the possibility with dignity; if he is to die, best it be at Scorpius' capable hands. Abed instead brings Troy's forehead to his lips, kissing it fondly.

Troy wishes he could say it is the in-Sebacean heat radiating from Scorpius' lips that makes him melt. But that would be a betrayal to the truth and the bond he has forged with Scorpius, a man he would do anything for just to hear him say...

“Well done, Braca,” Abed says, pulling away.

Troy reaches out for him, holding Abed's face in his hands. “It's good to see you, sir.” How he loves to call Scorpius “sir.”

They gaze into each other's eyes for what seems like an eternity.

But really it's probably more like five minutes. Still, that's a pretty long time to be staring into another dude's eyes outside of a staring contest. And Troy is pretty sure they aren't having a staring contest, because Abed blinks a couple times and there's this weird tension like when someone farts in an elevator but there's only two people in it and you just have to live with the knowledge that the other person farted or that you farted and the other person can smell it until they get off at their floor. Right now, Troy isn't sure if he's farted or Abed's farted, but he likes to hope maybe they both farted but Troy's definitely not gonna own up to it because Abed might get really offended, so he just waits for Abed to say something. Then his arms start to get tired and actually start shaking, which is really kind of embarrassing because Troy is always talking about how many one-handed push-ups he can do (like, probably more than Jeff—seriously, that many), so he pulls away, ending the scene.

“Good game,” Troy says weakly.

But now his arms feel all weird and he's sort of mad at Abed for some reason and he still doesn't know who farted.

–

Troy puts down his pencil and stares across the table. “Jeff, how do you know if a guy is into you or if he's just leading you on?”

Annie, who Troy totally forgot was in the room, parrots, “Yeah, Jeff. How do you know if a guy is into you or if he's just leading you on?”

Jeff shoots Annie a glare before addressing Troy. “In my admittedly limited and mind-boggling history of being courted by gentlemen, a guy shows that he's into you by reading your emails—” Oh, my god! Abed totally reads Troy's emails to him when can't sound out the words! “—taking every opportunity to touch you—” _Oh, my god!_ Abed totally gave Troy a Cardassian neck job in the Dreamatorium! “—and dressing up in strange costumes for no logical reason whatsoever.” _OH, MY GOD!_ “And the only way you can deal with that is to ignore him and fervently hope he won't find you after you graduate.”

“But what if you're actually into the guy?” Troy asks.

“Well, the adult thing would be to confront that guy with your shared feelings rather than sending him text messages implying sexual intercourse in the biology lab.”

Annie huffs.

“That makes sense,” Troy nods, packing up his things. “Thanks, Jeff.”

On the way out of the study room, he can hear Jeff ask, “Did Troy just come out of the closet?”

  


–

Abed clenches the iron bars with his hands, pulling at them with his Vulcan (no, not Vulcan— _half_ Vulcan, never fully Vulcan and never fully Human) strength. The bars, as they had in the previous fifteen tests, refuse to budge. There must be a way out of this cell. Once one has accepted Surak as their teacher, no cage can keep one prisoner.

(Logic dictates, however, that there are exceptions to every rule.)

Sitting on the stacked-up mattresses allocated for their beds, Troy is as at ease with himself in an alien prison as he is anywhere—a quality Abed admires, not that he would ever think of telling the good doctor so.

“Angry, Mr. Spock? Or frustrated, perhaps?” Troy asks in his slight Georgian drawl.

Abed does not look at him, keeping his eyes on the bars confining them. “Such emotions are foreign to me, doctor; I am merely testing the strength of the door.”

“For the fifteenth time.” It isn't a judgment or accusation so much as a statement of understanding. The manifestation of Abed's Human emotions are, as ever, opaque to Troy. He wonders briefly what else Troy knows he is feeling, but too Vulcan to show.

Abed steps down to where the cell door meets the cold, concrete wall, feeling along the bars for any structural weaknesses in the welding.

“Spock,” Troy says, walking to Abed's side. “Spock.” He grips one of the iron bars for no reason beyond that he is Human. Perhaps, it gives Dr. McCoy, as Jim would say, “emotional security.” “I know we've had our disagreements.” Normally so skilled in the Human art of eye contact, Troy hangs his head low, his gaze fixed on the ground. “Maybe they're jokes. I don't know.” His drawl thickens to a rambling mumble. “As Jim says, we're often not sure ourselves sometimes, but what I'm trying to say is—”

“Doctor,” Abed cuts in, “I am seeking a means of escape. Can you please be brief?”

Troy looks up at him, his face frighteningly open and equally pleasant. “What I'm trying to say is you saved my life today.”

“Yes.” Abed nods. “That is correct.”

Troy snaps—much like Abed's Human mother would snap when he didn't meet her emotional needs. “I'm trying to thank you, you pointy-eared hobgoblin!” Troy growls.

“Ah, yes. You Humans have that emotional need to express thanks. 'You're welcome,' I believe, is the correct response.” Abed believes so, but even with his decades of study of Human behavior, he could be wrong. He has been before. Abed walks to the other side of the cell door, checking the joints there. “However, doctor, you must remember—” and so many forget, but rarely Troy “—that I am entirely motivated by logic. The loss of the Enterprise's ship surgeon, whatever my estimation of his effectiveness, would mean a reduction in the efficiency of ship function and therefore—”

Troy pushes Abed up against the cool, concrete wall, the element of surprise allowing him to overpower Abed's superior strength. “You know why you're not afraid to die, Spock?” Troy asks in a heated whisper. “You're more afraid of living.” Abed looks away. “Each day you stay alive is one more day you might slip and let your Human side peek out, and when it does, you might not do it right.” Troy is going off book. That isn't in the script. “All the other Humans will laugh at you or push you away. That's it, isn't it? Insecurity.” Troy pauses, the silence between them sizzling like a Vulcan summer. “Why, you wouldn't know what to do with a genuine, warm, decent feeling.”

Abed manages to meet Troy's gaze. “Really, doctor?” Abed plants his hands on Troy's temples and presses a genuine, warm, slightly indecent kiss to his forehead.

That's not Spock; that's Scorpius. But it's actually Abed, who is probably some combination of them both: neither Spock's idealized hybrid vigor nor Scorpius' cynical half-breed, a common ground somewhere between them with a dash of Garak when he wants to pretend or when the walls are closing in on him. And there's Bashir ready and willing to pull him out of the hole he's cramped himself in, spreading a blanket over his shoulders. But Bashir is also McCoy before him, knowing and seeing what Abed can never admit, and Braca, too, giving up a charmed life of guaranteed acceptance for easily the weirdest person he's ever met. Those three and a bunch of others are all Troy.

Abed pulls away, just far enough to see Troy smiling. “So, we both farted.”

“What?” Abed asks.

“I'll explain later.”

They gaze into each other's eyes until Troy's arms get tired.

  


–

Pierce is the last to take his seat at the study room table, grumbling, “Is this another racism intervention? Because, I tell you, the Swedes like being called 'turnipheads.' It makes 'em feel important.”

The group collectively puzzles over that for a moment before Abed moves on. “No, Troy and I wanted to tell you guys something.”

“Before we announce it on our morning show,” Troy finishes.

“Ooh,” Shirley coos. “I hope this is about the return of Tie-Dye Tuesdays. The boys and I made new shirts last weekend.”

“Actually, it's about me and Abed.” Troy looks to Abed, taking a deep breath, before holding out the middle and fore fingers of his right hand, which Abed solemnly meets with his own. They hold the pose, staring expectantly at the rest of the study group.

After thirty seconds of silence, Abed says, “I don't think they get the reference.”

“Me neither.” Troy pulls his hand away.

“It's not broad enough for mainstream audiences.”

“It was only in one episode.”

“But it was a good episode.”

“The best!”

“At least top three for Spock episodes.”

“Was that a _Star Trek_ thing?” Shirley asks.

Abed nods. “That's how Vulcans kiss.”

“Oh. _Oh._ So, you two are kissing... together... as men... in the Leviticus way?”

Troy and Abed nod.

“Oh.” Shirley leans back in her chair, clutching her purse like a giant leather teddy bear.

“You know, you could have just held hands and we all would have gotten what you were saying,” Jeff says.

“Uh, no,” Troy snickers. “Do you know how sensitive Vulcan hands are?”

“Yeah,” Abed continues. “We couldn't do that unless I wanted to get kicked off the High Council for public indecency.”

“And he barely got reelected, Jeff. Barely.”

“One day,” Jeff says, “you two are going to completely detach yourselves from reality and float off into outer space. And I will be there to take pictures.”

“Well,” Annie says, “I hope you two are very happy with your _Star Trek_ Leviticus kissing relationship.”

“Aw, thanks, Annie,” Troy says.

“None of you guys are disgusted and no longer want to be our friends until an unforeseen tragedy makes you realize you still care?” Abed asks.

“Are you kiddin' me?” Pierce asks. “I've got a gay black friend now.” He slaps Troy on the back. “You know how many arguments that'll win me?”

Abed looks to Shirley. “And you're not going to send us to some pray-away-the-gay camp where we'll learn proper gender roles and make love to a nineties indie pop soundtrack?”

“Oh, no,” she responds, her voice sweet as pie. “I've long reconciled myself to the fact that everyone at this table except for me is going to hell and there is nothing I can do about it.”

“Aw,” Annie says, holding her hand to heart.

“I don't know why you think we're gonna be mad,” Pierce says, “when it's Britta whose boyfriend is blowing Abed—”

“Pierce!” Jeff shouts.

“—kisses,” Pierce finishes.

“I would be mad,” Britta says serenely, “were I not a modern, enlightened woman.”

“You're not even a little mad that Troy broke up with you?” Annie asks.

“We didn't break up.” Britta smiles smugly. “We have an arrangement. He's free to see Abed, I'm free to try my luck at the truck stop.”

“Truckers, Britta, really?”

“They've seen the world, Jeff!”

“So,” Shirley starts, “have you told your families?”

“Uh, no.” Troy rolls his eyes, chuckling. “Not if I ever want to talk to them again.” His chuckles turn into sobs as he lays his head on the table. Pierce pats his back softly.

“My dad kinda already knew after he attended my Jedi wedding to Han Solo when I was six,” Abed says. “There was a lot of stuff in therapy about that, so he got used to it. My mom doesn't know. We're not really close anymore and I want to keep her not talking to me because she's forgotten about me and not because she hates me.”

Troy chokes out a loud sob. “They will never talk to me!”

“Oh,” Annie and Shirley sigh, rushing over to hug Troy.

“My cousin Clyde celebrated Arbor Day _once_ and no one has spoken to him in eight years!”

Soon, there's a big study group hug centering around Troy, the comfort of which is only interrupted by the Dean bursting into the room. “ _They're comin' out!_ ” he sings. “ _They want the world to..._ Oh, god, I missed the happy part, didn't I?”

“Uh huh,” Troy says from underneath his friends.

The Dean tears off his rainbow wig and joins the group hug, showing remarkable restraint in barely touching Jeff.

  


–

From the captain's chair aboard the Klingon battle cruiser, Troy, son of Mogh, grips a chain tightly in his hand, holding it taut so that the prisoner bowing before him feels all the might of a Klingon regent. “Ah, so this is the _petaQ_ who lost our space station to the rebels.”

Trembling like a coward, Abed blabbers, “That's not exactly—”

Troy wrenches the chain forward, cutting off the circulation in the prisoner's scaly, Cardassian neck. “Are you calling me a liar?”

Troy awaits an answer, but finds only Abed pointing frantically at the chain pulling at his metal collar. Troy gives the prisoner just slightest amount of slack and words come pouring from his mouth. “I was merely observing that, as one of many officers under Intendant Kira's command, it would be an overstatement to say that I alone was responsible for the loss of the station.”

“But you are the only officer who managed to escape!”

“Then perhaps I should have surrendered myself to rebels, groveling at their feet, begging for mercy like the Intendant?”

As a Klingon, that image disgusts Troy, but as a man he finds it rather... stimulating. He pounds his armrest with a clenched fist, silently berating himself for allowing the Cardassian coward to distract him. “You are trying to shift the blame away from yourself.”

“Am I succeeding?” the Cardassian asks.

Troy surges to his feet, towering over Abed. “This time I will deal with the rebels myself,” he growls. “And you will be at my side redeeming yourself in battle.”

“Your fairness and good judgment are everything that I heard them to be,” Abed says, his voice almost matching Troy's fervor. “Believe me, my Regent, it will take the blood of many rebels to quench the thirst of my vengeance.”

Troy chuckles at the Cardassian's performance. “Spoken like a Klingon.”

“I'm trying,” Abed says wearily. “Now if you could just take off this insufferable collar.”

“No, the collar stays—” A shiver runs down Troy's spine. “—until every rebel on the space station lies dead at my feet.” (And, for now, he'll have Abed at his feet.)

Troy yanks the chain, dragging Abed close enough for his cheek to rest on Troy's thigh. Abed glares up at him, his eyes ablaze with the passion of a man unused to submission but willing to learn for his own survival. The Cardassian coward will find Troy to be a harsh but effective teacher.

The air between them burns, as if they were the only two on the bridge, as if they were not soldiers but rather two _par'Mach'kai_ huddled around a campfire after slaughtering a fat _tarG_ and finding release in a pool of its still warm blood...

Breaking character, his eyes wide, Troy drops his end of the tie on Abed's neck. “ _What was that?_ ” he yells, flailing his arms in the air.

Abed holds a hand to his throat. “I have no idea.”

“Did you know that we would...?” Troy frantically gestures between their crotches.

Abed shakes his head. “No.”

Tears sting in Troy's eyes. (For the record, this is not the first time Troy has started crying while both of them have erections.) “That is not _normal_! We need to talk to someone! Like a doctor!”

“I know just the person.”

  


–

“So, what's your _dean_ lemma?”

Troy's eyes remain as wide as they were in the Dreamatorium; he looks like he's trying to blow up the Dean's stapler with his mind... which would probably be less embarrassing than the real reason they are here.

Troy facing an epic blue screen of death, Abed speaks for both of them. “It's sort of a personal problem.”

“Oh, well, you know Greendale students can come to me with anything that's troubling them. That's why I have an open _dean_ policy.” Dean Pelton points to empty doorframe of his office.

“I thought that was because the hinges rusted off.”

“Well, for _whatever_ reason, I'm here to listen.”

Without missing a beat, Abed says, “Troy and I were pretending to be evil aliens from _Star Trek_ and he was pretending to lead me around on a leash and then he started to pretend to choke me and then we both got really horny and now we're kinda freaked out.”

The dean leans forward, propping his chin up on his fists. “Freaked out _how_?”

“I'm mostly worried that I'm actually from a mirror universe where humanity is enslaved by aliens and everyone wears a lot of leather and is into S&M. But Troy seems concerned that twenty years from now he'll be arrested for masturbating in a dirty movie theatre.”

“I wouldn't worry about either of those things happening.”

“Really?”

“Maybe the first one. But the second one—no. Being interested in perhaps more niche sex acts doesn't necessarily lead to being put on the sex offender registry. God knows, it helps, but it's not a foregone conclusion. As long as you set proper limits for yourself and your partner... sss, then you won't end up breaking any laws... unless you cross the border into Wyoming, but, in that case, some rules are meant to be broken.”

“So, we've got nothing to worry about?”

“I wouldn't say that. You know, if you choke someone—” The dean leans over his desk and whispers, “You might _choke_ someone. Of course...” He reclines in his chair. “There are ways to avoid that.” He reaches back, plucking a pamphlet from the rack behind him. “There.” He blows the dust off the cover, before passing it to Abed. “I have been waiting years to hand one of those out.”

Abed read the title aloud, “ _Working Out the Kinks_ by E. Pillsbury.”

“That's really just a primer.” Dean Pelton pulls a jumble of keys from his pocket. (Stunned into silence or not, Troy still briefly wonders where the Dean stores those keys when he's wearing a costume without pockets.) “I've compiled a few supplementary articles over the years.” He turns a key and open a desk drawer. “Just a few things.” He hefts a binder stuffed as thick as a phonebook onto his desk.

Troy hesitantly takes ahold of it, flipping through the pages.

“Just, you know, a little de Sade for the historical perspective. Some of the latest from the queer theory journals. One or two Dworkin pieces to give you a background on opposing theory. Bathroom reading, really.”

Troy stares down at the binder reverently like he's been handed the Holy Grail. “I will try really, really hard to actually read this.”

  


–

Vulcan blood thrums in Abed's ear. If there was ever any doubt as to which side of Abed's ancestry is dominant (and there was a good deal of doubt), the onset of _pon farr_ , the Vulcan time of mating, made perfectly clear that Abed is mostly, if at times inconveniently, Vulcan.

Abed whips his _ahn-woon_ through the air, the metal balls at the end of the leather wrapping around the legs of Abed's opponent, toppling him to the desert sand. The _ahn-woon_ , like Abed, cares little that Abed's opponent is his friend and captain. In the time of _pon farr_ , Abed must either mate or die, and Troy is the only obstacle preventing Abed from sating the fiery lust that burns so shamefully through his veins. He does not know why his intended one, T'Pring, challenged their bond, and he does not know why she chose Troy as the champion to duel Abed for her hand. Presently, he does not care why. His only concern is the ancient Vulcan mating drive and finding an oasis to cool his burning need.

Abed brings the _ahn-woon_ down, but Troy dodges the blow before grabbing onto Abed's _ahn-woon_. They struggle for a moment over the leather whip, but Abed retains his hold on the weapon at the cost of being flung across the challenge ground. Abed quickly gets to his feet and tackles Troy to the sand. Ever the proficient fighter, Troy almost immediately gets the upper-hand, flipping Abed onto his back. Now lying on top of him, Troy thigh rubs along Abed's hot groin, igniting his desire—but _no_ , it is for his intended and not his opponent that his blood should burn!

Abed wraps his _ahn-woon_ around Troy's neck, tightening it so that his eyes bulge and his face flushes. Struggling desperately now, Troy hooks his left leg around Abed's hip, seemingly attempting to kick the Vulcan in his sensitive lower back, but—O!—he fails to inflict pain, succeeding only in setting Abed aflame with searing pleasure. Overcome, Abed's grip on the _ahn-woon_ slackens and his head droops forward onto his captain's shoulder.

“It's alright, Spock,” Troy whispers. “Do what you have to do.” His right leg wraps around Abed's hips, crushing their groins together.

With permission given, Abed looks up to the orange Vulcan sky and bellows the ancient Vulcan mating call, claiming his bondmate for all to hear. T'Pring completely forgotten, Abed ruts against Troy's supple thigh, efficiently fulfilling his biological imperative in his pants.

As the heat of Vulcan fades into the cool of their apartment (Abed is still having some difficulty in keeping the Dreamatorium going after an orgasm, but give him fifteen minutes and he can have it up and running again), Abed collapses loose-limbed onto Troy. “Definitely worth the extra laundry.”

–

“Your plan to infiltrate Hogwarts on the back of my head is going swimmingly,” Troy says, pouring a bottle of water into Abed's mouth—something made all the more difficult by the two of them standing back to back inside one very roomy robe now soaked with Evian.

“Yes, yes,” Abed barks. “I'm done with the water.”

Across the study room, Britta heaves an extended and extremely high pitched sigh. Shirley looks up from this month's _Entrepreneur_. “Britta, I know you think bottled water is bad for the environment, but you can't let yourself get this upset every time someone gets thirsty.”

“It's not the water,” Britta says, her shoulders slumped forward and a terrific pout forming. “It's Troy and Abed. I can't stand seeing them be all couple-y.”

“It's natural to be jealous.” Not that Shirley thinks anything is “natural” about their little arrangement. Although, after learning about snail reproduction in biology last year, Shirley is starting to think “natural” isn't the same as “goodly” or “Christlike.” Far be it for her to question God's design of the animal kingdom, but snails shivving each other to make little snail babies just doesn't sit right with her.

“I'm not jealous. I just hate being excluded.”

“Yeah, you made that clear when you showed up to the Black Student Union meeting last week.”

“It's not about Troy having fun without me; I just watch what they do together sometimes—”

“Don't share those things with me, Britta.”

“—and it looks like it would be fun, but I don't have anyone to try it with.” Britta leans over. “Did you know long haul truckers are surprisingly conservative when it comes to sex?”

“As they should be. Folks shouldn't mix playing pretend with sex... unless you happen to be a married woman who likes to bring the stories of the Old Testament to life with her husband.”

Britta glares. “If you're gonna be all Christian housewife, I'll find someone else to talk about my sex life with.”

“Oh, I really wish you would.”

Abed, now shirtless, steps in front their couch, as if on cue. And knowing Abed, it probably is. “Hey, Britta.”

“Hey, Abed.” She cranes her neck to see around him. “Where's Troy?”

“Azkaban.”

“Don't you think putting Troy in jail has unfortunate implications given the higher incarceration rates for black males in—”

“Please don't ruin this. I know it's tempting.”

“All I'm saying is why'd the Prisoner of Azkaban have to be Sirius Black? Why couldn't he have been Sirius White?”

“Britta, we can talk about the inherent racism in labeling blackness and darkness as evil later. Now I wanna talk about Troy.”

“What about?”

“His birthday's coming up. I thought we should do something. I know Troy's not supposed to celebrate birthdays, but he's also not supposed to have pre-marital sex with two different people, so...”

“I'm down. What'd you have in mind?”

  


–

Britta slowly crosses the VIP lounge of Braca's command carrier, dragging the end of her leather studded chain along the deck. From his chair, Abed watches her coolly, letting none of his Scarran heat creep into his gaze. As always, it is kept in-check by his Sebacean genes and ingeniously devised cooling suit. Britta is, however, slowly learning how to make that heat boil to the surface.

Closer now, she lets the chain just barely caress his suit as she turns away from, straddling his legs. “To victory—” She lowers herself onto his lap, wiggling upward so that her behind rests on his codpiece. “—over Scarran domination.” It is somewhat ironic that Scorpius has dedicated his entire life and Sikozu her entire body to crushing the Scarrans only for her to so eagerly agitate his Scarran half in their recreation time, as she is now.

He wraps his arms around her. “To you.” His gloved hand covers her own, dipping her forefinger into a small cup of Delvian caramel in his other hand. “And your bravery.” He brings her finger to mouth and she dutifully sucks it clean. Due to the physiological necessity of Scorpius remaining clothed at all times, that is likely the only thing she will be sucking tonight. Not that she minds. Fellatio is just one of many tools used by the patriarchy to keep women in submissive positions while denying them any sexual ple—

Abed clears his throat.

Britta clears her head. _Right. There's no space patriarchy._ And returns to Sikozu.

“For resisting the enemy,” she says, a wide smile forming on her lips.

“For not resisting—” He dips her finger in the caramel once again. “—your friends.” And licks it away with his talented Scarran tongue.

Her head falls back onto his shoulder with a pleased sigh.

He throws the cup behind him, not caring where it falls, before taking hold of Sikozu's chain and pulling it back taut against her neck. She moans, but he growls like a Scarran.

From Braca's office above, Troy watches with rapt attention, breaking character only to mutter, “I have the weirdest boner.”

And, perhaps for the first time in his life, he knows that's okay.


End file.
